The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter - Brent Hayward [72]
From the other side of the room, her fire roared.
Moments later, the chatelaine strode the Great Hall, surcoat billowing.
Without assistance, though he lay groaning, reaching out, even calling for help, path’s father finally managed to get to his feet. Feeling very tiny in this place, and quite ill, he came slowly to understand that his son was no longer around. The sling, still around his neck, was not only empty but the frame had been smashed when he’d fallen and was useless. In more ways than one, he felt lighter. Could it truly be that path was gone? He looked all around: dozens of people, going about their cryptic business in this city, but no sign of the boy.
Then, for these crowds of citizens and for Nowy Solum, he felt a quick rush of giddy gratitude. He almost exclaimed with the surprising joy that burst inside him. His eyes watered. Though the journey had nearly killed him, the destination had taken away his burden as soon as they had entered the front gates. There was no more strange presence, no more fear of what his son was becoming, no more pressure.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs to capacity for the first time in ages. Under a dark archway, he removed the sling from around his neck and let it drop to the street.
Without path, well . . . he might even linger here, in Nowy Solum. For a little while. And, if he ever felt that his boy was nearby, why, he could just steer clear. There was room enough here for both of them. That is, if path was even still alive.
He searched inside himself to see if this morbid thought left residues of remorse, but it did not.
He was free.
Had not a massive man leaned over path, as path rolled into the gutter? If this man had taken his son, and the spirit that had entered path continued to transform him, then the big stranger would need the best of luck.
“Viti,” he said, which was the name of path’s father, the name he had been born with. No one had spoken it aloud, not since his wife’s death. He smiled. His name had invigorated his tongue and palette. His name echoed off the walls and faded down the streets. He said it again, louder, feeling as though he were waking from a deep sleep. The giant could keep his damned son! Helpless and demanding, the rotten boy had killed his own mother, draining her day by day. Path was the reason she had gone mad, the reason she did the things she did with the men who passed through. Death for his wife had been a merciful release.
Shame she hadn’t lived to be here now, with viti, in the big city! All the fights, the arguments: these had been path’s doing, the pressure of having a child like him for a son—
Grinning again, viti took a step forward, not caring which direction he went, for each direction held unknown futures and unlimited possibilities, but as he put his foot down he heard a loud crack from above and someone screamed. The last thing viti did was glance up before the briefest flash of discomfort was followed by an eternity of grey static.
Nahid came awake, familiar pains throughout, dim light driving into his eyes, still very much under the ill-effects of his melancholy, which had been surging inside of late. At first, he assumed it morning, and that his memory and body suffered not only from the curse in his veins but from a compound of too many buds and ales. His vision was blurred, his head pounding, his nose excruciating.
He was outside, in an alley.
Had there been a fight?
Half-sitting, with his back against a mossy wall, he discovered that more than just his face was sore: most of his body, in fact, when he tried to move, ached. His head must have hit the soft brick behind him because his skull felt like it had split in two. Something had bruised his chest and shoulders.
There had been a fight.
With a gang? Had he battled a hundred officers of the palatinate?
Daytime. Not morning at all. The faint sounds of people from a nearby street, but there